The Sorcerer's Apprentice
by erunyauve
Summary: The mortal life of the Witch-king, from his childhood in Númenor to the first appearance of the Nazgûl. Rated for disturbing scenes and violence. Revised to split into chapters. Complete.
1. The Apprentice

**Author's Notes:** _'Their peril is almost entirely due to the unreasoning fear which they inspire'_, Tolkien tells us in Letter 210. _'The Witch-king, their leader, is more powerful in all ways than the others... .'_ He has some foresight and cunning - in 'The Hunt for the Ring', we are told that he spares Grima because he realizes that faithless Grima will do great harm to Saruman (of whose treachery, in his dealings with Sauron, the Riders have learned). He has control over evil spirits (ie the wights of the Barrow-downs) and is a formidable sorcerer. We see his magic at work when the gates of Minas Tirith are breached:  
  
_'Then the Black Captain rose in his stirrups and cried aloud in a dreadful voice, speaking in some forgotten tongue words of power and terror to rend both heart and stone.  
'Thrice he cried. Thrice the great ram boomed. And suddenly upon the last stroke the Gate of Gondor broke. As if stricken by some blasting spell it burst asunder: there was a flash of searing lightning, and the doors tumbled in riven fragments to the ground.'_ [1, 2, 3].  
  
He is Sauron's most faithful servant and one of his greatest weapons, in part because he has some ability to think independently - he is not just a pawn. Sauron must have allowed this, as the Ring permits him complete control over the Ringwraiths. Why does Sauron choose him, and why does he trust him? [4]   
  
**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Tolkien aside from original characters needed to move the story along. I've invented the name of the Witch-king, as Tolkien did not give him a proper name. Translations of Tolkien's languages, further notes and explanation of the Adûnaic grammar in the opening poem appear in the 'Story Notes' chapter at the end of this story.  
  


**The Apprentice**  
  


_Kinâkha! Kinâkha! Agannâlun, kinâkha!  
Zigûrun urûkhi kiyada.  
Kinâkha! Kinâkha! Mânôn 'ndâur, kinâkha!  
Idô dulg nûluvô, lôkha pûha 'nki  
anâkhi._  
  
Arise! Arise! Death-shadow, arise!  
The Wizard, he calls to you.  
Arise! Arise! Gloom-spirit, arise!  
From blackest night,  
come forth your twisted breath.  
  
**~Prologue~**  
  
**Eriador, Third Age 1075**  
  
Olórin savored the roasting venison, rubbed with herbs and spit-roasted under the watchful eye of his companion. The Lady's bright jewels twinkled, crickets and night birds sang lustfully to one another, and the sweetness of the night denied the Shadow of its existence. Olórin's eyes looked east, however, beyond the yet unseen mountains, beyond the great river. However soothing the stars, however blissful the birds, evil's bony fingers wove a poisoned net in the Greenwood, growing longer each day. Thus had he come to Ennor; thus had his companion returned. With reluctance, he broke the silence, taking up again the tale they had let lie while setting up camp for the night. [8]  
  
"The other nine, Sauron distributed among men, and you have no doubt heard tales in Valinor of the fate of those men. Eight are, to greater or lesser degree, but slaves to the Dark Lord's will, and if indeed they hold Amon Lanc in the Greenwood, as Círdan believes, we cannot doubt that Sauron himself has begun to stir. The ninth is another matter. In life, he differed from men as you do from elves. Sauron holds the Black Captain in thrall, but not utterly so. [9]  
  
"Melian was his foremother, and he inherited many of her powers of enchantment, which Sauron has twisted and augmented with his own. Even elves must pause before him, for fear is not his only weapon."  
  
"That is where I come into this tale, I expect," Glorfindel said, stirring the fire.  
  
"Indeed. My heart tells me you will meet him more than once - to stand against him, in your service to the son of Eärendil, may be your purpose in returning to Ennor. Yet do not underestimate him - he will only grow more powerful as the Dark Lord waxes."  
  
Glorfindel took the meat from the fire and shared it between them. He kept an eye on the wizard, who ate in silence with a thoughtful look in his eye. He knew that if he remained silent, Olórin would soon go on with his tale. At last, his wait had reward.  
  
"When the first shadow fell on Númenor, I came to the island in the guise of a simple man, traveling about, turning my eye in watch upon one or another place. I came only to observe - not to interfere, for that was not Eru's plan."  
  
"Men could not be rescued from themselves," Glorfindel sighed, understanding the sad inevitability of the fall of Númenor.  
  
The wizard stroked his beard. "In Númenor, we perhaps made the same mistake as we did when we invited the elves to leave Cuiviénen. The minds of the _Eruhíni_ must have challenge, lest they grow idle and capricious, unappreciative of their blessings and led into folly." [10]  
  
The elf-lord winced. 'For such folly I have atoned,' he reminded himself. "But no elf would serve the Dark Lord - not knowingly. Save Maeglin," he added, frowning. "And he had little choice, once in the clutches of Morgoth."  
  
"Strange you should mention Maeglin, for his story would not be entirely foreign to the Witch-king. Yet, his master is more clever than Morgoth. Sauron aims not to destroy, but to control and corrupt. And the Witch-king represents his greatest success." The Maia took hot tea from the elf-lord and arranged his pack that he might sit more comfortably. [11]  
  
"Once, he was only a boy... ."  
  
**Númenor, Second Age 1818**  
  
"Well, Angórë, come here and we will see how this fits you." The old woman beckoned her grandson forth. The child stood patiently while she fastened the clasp at the neck. "Stand back a bit."  
  
Obediently, Angórë took a giant step back. The old woman smiled. She had fashioned the cloak in the image of the Elven cloaks recalled from her distant childhood in Andúnië. Angórë was not a handsome child. He had a face a tad too thin, a nose just a bit too long. Most striking was his hair: of deepest black, so black it seemed to absorb the light around it. The old woman had chosen bright scarlet in contrast to the child's hair, and even a critical eye would admit that in this beautiful cloak, the boy might pass for an Elven princeling. She smiled, planting a kiss on her grandson's forehead. "You look like a little prince. Does it please you?"  
  
"Oh yes, Ona." He had a new cloak, of the sensible, sturdy grey wool his mother had chosen. Too tight at the neck and too long, it itched terribly. If he could help it at all, he never wore it, and twice he had forgotten it at his tutor's cottage. [12]  
  
The woman eyed her work critically. "I have but one more adjustment to make. Mercy me, I had forgotten how boys grow!"  
  
Reluctantly, he took off the cloak and returned it to his grandmother. Wrapping his thin arms around her, he said, "It is the best present."  
  


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The following morning found Angórë absorbed in his lessons when the tutor's wife hurried into the room without knocking. "Please forgive me, but the lord wants his son home," she apologized. "His grandmother -" she looked at Angórë. "She is very old, you know," the woman finished.  
  
Upon reaching his father's manor, Angórë hurried up to his grandmother's rooms. Behind the door, slightly ajar, the healer spoke with his father. As he reached for the door, the housekeeper came out and shut it firmly behind her.  
  
"You cannot go in there!"  
  
"I want to see my Ona. What is wrong? Why is the healer here?"  
  
"The healer is here to see your grandmother. Run along and play, I expect they shall call for you later."  
  
Angórë walked away dejectedly. When the housekeeper had gone back into his grandmother's rooms, he crept down the hall to a recessed doorway across the passage and sat down in the shadows. The housekeeper came out a moment later. "Now where has that insufferable child got to?" she muttered.  
  
Angórë watched the door, hoping his father would come out. His father would let him in to see his grandmother. After some time, the lord did leave the room and stood motionless before the door, his head bowed. Angórë left his hiding place and tugged at his father's sleeve.  
  
"Angórë! Where have you been? I sent the housekeeper to find you ages ago."  
  
"I have been here all day, Ada. I want to see Ona."  
  
His father squatted down. "And your Ona very much wanted to see you. But she has gone away now."  
  
Angórë looked at his father, confused. "Where did she go? When is she coming back?"  
  
"I do not know where she went. Only spirits know that. But she cannot come back."  
  
Angórë began to understand. "No! She will come back. She would not leave."  
  
He left his father in the passage and ran to his rooms. "She will come back, she will. She would not leave me all alone."  
  
A small boy stirred in the corner. "You are not alone. I will not leave you." Angórë lifted his head, considering the boy. Perhaps he could call her back, as he had called this boy. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying with all his might to call his grandmother.  
  
"It will not work," the other boy said sadly. "Only those who are not weary remain in this world. She has gone beyond."  
  


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"Stop fidgeting, child," the housekeeper said, combing the boy's hair with none too gentle strokes.  
  
A voice sailed from the doorway. "I will help him finish. You may go."  
  
Angórë turned around in his chair. "Alatundar! Naneth said you would not come." His brother lived at the King's court, many leagues to the north.  
  
His brother began to make a braid of the tangled hair. The child had evidently been left to run wild since their grandmother had died. Alatundar would send up a maid with more patience after the funeral. "I came as fast as I could." He felt the loss keenly, for his grandmother had been more a parent to him than his mother or father, and he felt a pang of sympathy for his young brother. "There, that should do. Now, put on your gloves, for we have not much time."  
  
They joined the soberly-dressed household in front of the manor. At the coachman's signal, the horses set off at a dignified pace, pulling the funeral coach. The mourners fell in behind, on foot, while a bell-ringer walked before the coach, calling those who would mourn the dead to follow. As they reached the town, many did join the procession, for the people of Nindamos recalled the lord's mother fondly.  
  
The coach met the highroad near the sea and turned back toward the manor, and the family's burial ground. Before the tomb, mourners filed past the bier, laying flowers on the casket. Angórë tugged at his brother's hand. "Alatundar, I do not have a flower," he whispered, his face wrinkled with worry.  
  
"We will both lay this one." When their turn came, the brothers laid the flower with the others. Angórë did not move on, however. He stopped before the casket.  
  
"I know you hear me, Ona, though my friend says you have gone beyond. Please come back to me, Ona." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "They do not see the spirit people as you and I do - no one need know."  
  
A muffled snort came from a big, swaggering boy. Some of the townsfolk looked uneasy. Angórë's mother took him firmly by the arm and led him away from the people. "Do not embarrass me like that again. Were you not told what to do?"  
  
The boy nodded.  
  
"Now, come and stand with us, and try to behave until this is over." The child's grandmother had indulged far too many of his whims. If only this moody, oversensitive child were more like his brother! In truth, her younger son resembled her in temperament more than she liked to admit.  
  


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"That will be all for today. You may go, Angórë." The boy gathered his work and went to the cloakroom. He stood for a moment, holding his cloak to his cheek. He could still smell his Ona's distinctive scent on the fabric. It gave him some comfort. Finally, he put on the cloak and reached for the door. As he did, the older boys filed in for the afternoon lessons.  
  
They were not the nicest of children. Nîphrûkh, a rather stupid giant of a boy, took great pleasure in tormenting Angórë. "Look at the little lord with his pretty red cloak! Did you get this from the spirit people you are always going on about?"  
  
"My Ona made it," Angórë said in a trembling voice.  
  
"Oh, his Ona made it. Who is your Ona, little one? One of your imaginary friends?"  
  
"My grandmother," Angórë said in a small voice.  
  
"Ah, your grandmother. Well, then, what a shame she has died and will make no more silly cloaks for spoilt little lords."  
  
Angórë burst into tears, running until he reached the manor. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into his Ona's lap.  
  
She was gone, and there were no soft laps to take her place.  
  
He would not return to his tutor, he decided. He announced this the next morning, remaining steadfast though his mother cuffed him and scolded. At last, she called his father.  
  
"Why do you not wish to go to your tutor? You like your lessons, you have said so."  
  
"I am never going back there. Never!"  
  
"Why ever not?"  
  
"Oh, Ada, they laughed at my cloak that Ona made. They said - they said -" the child could not continue.  
  
"Well, I will send word to your tutor to let you leave earlier, so you do not meet these boys."  
  
"Can you not make them stop?"  
  
The lord sighed. "No, Angórë, I cannot make them stop." The boy was much too sensitive, much too artless in his dealings with others. He must learn to cope with the Nîphrûkhs of life; he must get a thicker skin. It did not occur to the lord that his son might come to wear the hide of an oliphaunt.  
  
**Númenor, Second Age 1823**  
  
He heard the whispers, the derisive laughter. He heard them, and knew himself the target of them. Safer it was, safer to hide away here, on the shadow side.  
  
"Why do you listen to them?" a childish voice demanded. In the gloom a small boy approached, his companion of all the years he could remember. Angórë had grown tall, perched on the edge of adolescence, but the boy never changed, never would change, for all that could grow into a man lay in a molding heap of rags and bones.  
  
He had learned too late that such abilities as he possessed must be guarded, must be hidden. Too late, he had learned that the unhappy spirits concealed themselves from others. Too late, he had learned he alone could call living and dead things to do his bidding and raise fire without kindling. The townsfolk feared him, for they did not understand. They shunned him and they tormented him with their whispers, whispers thought beyond his hearing, yet he heard them, nonetheless.  
  


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Leaving his tutor's cottage, he noticed that the afternoon sun still shone brightly. The days had begun to lengthen again, just as spring had also brought much rain over the past few days. Ruts and holes pitted the highroad; that morning, his father had hired a crew to begin repairs.  
  
He had walked perhaps half a league when he heard the sound of approaching horses. His sharp eyes recognized the livery of the lead horse, and Angórë fought the impulse to hide in the woods - what offense had he committed, that he should hide away like a thief?  
  
Above the splat of the horses' hooves in the muddy road, Nîphrûkh's voice sallied forth in a mocking tone.  
  
"Look, it is the lord's son. Be certain to bow to him as we pass." The other boys laughed, save a few made uneasy by such blatant disrespect. Nîphrûkh urged his mount into a swift canter, refusing to move to the side of the road as he should. Mud flew from the steps of the passing horses, spattering the solitary walker.  
  
Angórë wiped the mud from his face. Rage erased all prudence from his mind. Cocking his head to the side, he listened to the forest until he found the sound he sought. He called to the crebain under his breath: _"Craban vorn vuio nin si, na nôl dín blabo raifn lín."_ [13]  
  
A crow rose from the shadows and descended upon Nîphrûkh in a flurry of wings and talons. His mount panicked, unhorsing Nîphrûkh as the boy put up his arms to protect himself from the bird's vicious pecks, crying in distress and terror.  
  
Guilt soured his triumph and Angórë called off the bird. _"Farn! Enni!"_ he cried, and the bird flew to land on his outstretched arm. Nîphrûkh looked up at Angórë, still gibbering in terror. [14]  
  
"You will learn to leave me be, Nîphrûkh."  
  
Fury overcame the older boy's fear. He dared not seek revenge here and now, but as Angórë diminished to a speck far along the road, a slow smile crossed Nîphrûkh's face. Angórë had gone too far.  
  
Come morning, the townsfolk spoke not in whispers but in loud voices. Few would defend the child, but many deferred to his father the lord. Others held forth more boldly. "There is an evil spirit in that boy - he has always been a strange one," a merchant told those gathered at the tavern.  
  
At the lord's manor, the servants told the story in hushed tones. The serving girl cast wary looks upon the boy as she served supper, dropping a tureen with a crash in her haste to escape from the dining room.  
  
Nervous and uncharacteristically quiet, Víressë turned her cheek as her son came to kiss her goodnight, so that his lips touched only air.  
  
"Something must be done this time," she said, when the child had gone up to bed. "Are you listening to me, Tárano? You really must do something."  
  
"What is it that you would have me do?" the lord demanded, abandoning his work in irritation. "Have the gossips and scandalmongers pilloried?"  
  
His wife sniffed. "When I was a girl, the line of Elros commanded respect."  
  
"As it still does, I hope. But the power of the lords has waned. The merchants and privateers hold the Council of the Sceptre. Númenor changes, and we must change with it." The lord constitutionally resisted such change. It appalled him that the troublesome son of the Master of Nindamos could take such liberties. The descendants of Atanalcar had once governed Nindamos freely. In this day, the lord had but one voice on the town's council. "The people will gossip. Idle minds yield wagging tongues." [15, 16]  
  
"Perhaps it is not only gossip," Víressë whispered.  
  
The lord looked up from his work in irritation. "Perhaps _what_ is not only gossip?"  
  
"These stories - such claims they make of our son."  
  
"Nonsense," the lord replied firmly. He picked up his quill, hoping that his wife would understand the matter closed. His practical nature rebelled against the romantic notions of the lady. To his mind, Nîphrûkh's ridiculous claims only exploited sentiment against an unpopular child.  
  


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Angórë listened until the voices in the drawing room grew silent. His father had attention only for his work; his mother thought only of herself. He felt very small and low. Perhaps he _was_ possessed of some wicked spirit. Had Eru thus fated him to this unhappy existence, as a thing of evil? Though birds and spirits might hear him, it seemed Eru did not, for the One gave no answer.  
  
**Númenor, Second Age 1826**  
  
"If you have no further need of me, _khôrí 'nhê_, I will take my leave." [17]  
  
Víressë did not look up from the babe at her breast. "You may go, Urêbêth."  
  
The baby hardly had need of a nurse, for the lady rarely let the child out of her sight. This child, the daughter she had very much wanted, would carry the torch of hopes long buried in a miserable childhood, desires unrealized in a loveless marriage.  
  
The nursemaid took her cloak and hurried to the servants' door, wishing not to waste a moment of the night. As she left the manor, a figure stepped out of the twilight, startling her.  
  
"My apologies, good lady. I am going to town - if you are going that way, might I accompany you?"  
  
"Yes, that is most generous of you," she said, glad for the escort. Of late, rogues and thieves prowled the highroads; the fisher-folk spoke of a shadow over the land and named these villains a sign of dark things to come.  
  
Urêbêth had arranged to meet her betrothed at the tavern in Nindamos, and though they reached town without incident, the man proved absent upon their arrival. Angórë pressed her to share a hot laced tea while she waited.  
  
They found a table and ordered the tea. Thereafter, Angórë's tongue unexpectedly tied itself into a knot and he could think of nothing to say to the girl. Fortunately, she kept up an animated chatter, filling the silence for both of them. Of Hadorian descent, her folk had worked the lord's land as tenant farmers for centuries. Her father produced a good living, and she had taken this situation as a nursemaid not out of necessity but to earn money for her wedding.  
  
"I was to have worn my mother's dress, but it will not do, not for the likes of his family," she admitted.  
  
Angórë was charmed by her frankness. His mother came from poor nobility, but concealed her stark childhood behind half-truths and evasions. As Urêbêth talked, her loose, golden hair swayed emphatically with her words, mesmerizing her companion. Girls were strange to him, but he now learned that such creatures had tricks of fascination quite unlike his own magic.  
  
So taken in was he by her wiles that he failed to notice that his hated rival had entered the tavern and made his way to their table.  
  
"Urêbêth, what keeps you? My father expects us to be prompt." Nîphrûkh crowded close to the table, his bulk towering over the girl.  
  
"I have been waiting on you this hour," the nursemaid complained, rising. She allowed Nîphrûkh to wrap her cloak about her shoulders, Angórë forgotten. "I would not have left my lady so early had I known you would be so late."  
  
"That is my lookout," Nîphrûkh said imperiously. As he trundled the nursemaid out the door, he looked back at Angórë with a smirk of triumph.  
  


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Nindamos greeted _Eruhantalë_ with a festival in celebration of the harvest. Folk came from distant parts of Hyarrostar, while merchants from the vineyards of Hyarnustar did brisk business. Booths on the quay sold batter-fried fish or sweet cakes. Farmers sold apples and roasted squash seeds and shopkeepers plied trinkets suitable for sweethearts. At nightfall, musicians - troubadours from Andustar - tuned their instruments while young people cleared space for dancing. Even Tilion had joined the festivities, arraying Ithil with an orange glow in honor of the harvest, his full glory mounting the sky to bring light to the revelers. [18]  
  
Angórë watched the dancers from a rocky perch beyond the quay. The happy laughter only heightened his loneliness. In a moment of foolish conviviality, he had invited a girl to dance. She accepted, but not without hesitation; he realized now she could not refuse the lord's son. After a lively reel, she released his hand quickly and returned to her companions. Thinking themselves beyond his hearing or notice, the girls giggled, looking surreptitiously after him. Though he could not hear their words, he knew himself to be their joke. He retreated into the darkness and watched his nemesis and the pretty nursemaid. Nîphrûkh moved like a clumsy ox next to the graceful girl, and it pained Angórë to see them - as it did to look away.  
  
After several turns, Nîphrûkh loosed his hold on Urêbêth and went in search of a draught of ale. Angórë approached the girl as she left the floor. "Might I have one dance?"  
  
She hesitated as had the other girl. Angórë turned away. "It is just that my feet are rather sore," she explained.  
  
"How can you marry such a fool?" he burst out.  
  
She frowned. "I wear no blinders, Angórë. Nîphrûkh wants only a pretty girl who will bear him beautiful children. Can you blame me if I wish my children to have more than beauty? Nîphrûkh's wealth will offer chances denied a tenant farmer's daughter."  
  
His eyes narrowed. "At the base of it, your sex is all the same. You only wish to get a husband who will improve your situation." With these bitter words, he stalked into the night, his back rigid.  
  
"Tell me, son of Lord Tárano, would you take me to wife?" Urêbêth whispered. "Would you defy custom and your family and marry blood more common than dirt?"  
  
Angórë urged his horse into a gallop, despite the hazards of such a pace in the darkness. Still, the cold air that whipped at his hair and cloak could not ease the burn of humiliation.  
  
He found the manor dark and quiet; even the stairs did not groan as he mounted them. This night, he swore, he would leave Nindamos behind him.  
  
Passing the nursery, he heard the baby give a little sigh in her sleep, and on a whim, he went to her cradle and watched the child for a very long time. "Love is but a vanity, a pretty word for Possession, or longing for what we have not got. And what is Possession but Power? Power is all that matters, little one. Power to take and hold our deepest desires.  
  
"Shall we set you in a glass case, to be a marionette, your strings firmly in the grip of your mother's love? Nay - that is not your fate. Innocent and undisturbed is your sleep, and so it shall remain." He put a finger to the baby's cheek, cold as he knew it would be.  
  
"I hope you have not woken her!" the housekeeper said crossly, bustling into the room. Her mistress had gone to bed with too much wine and that flighty young nursemaid still had not returned from the festival. The housekeeper wanted her sleep.  
  
"I do not think she will wake." Angórë left the nursery, reaching his own chambers as the housekeeper's cries roused the manor.  
  
A great commotion followed. When quiet - an eerie, unnatural quiet - had descended upon the house, the boy left his rooms, creeping halfway down the stairs. The healer had come from Nindamos and spoke to his father in a low voice. In the drawing room sat the housekeeper, her face puffy from crying. Spying Angórë out of the corner of her eye, she leapt to her feet.  
  
"You wicked, wicked boy! They say there is evil in you, and truly, I have seen it by my own eye. _Ki dulg manô!_" [19]  
  
The lord came to see what had roused the housekeeper. "Cease this at once!" he commanded the woman. The lord ran a tired hand through his hair. Truly, Angórë's presence in the nursery that night was most unfortunate. He could not hope that the servants would keep silent.  
  
If only the boy were not so sullen, so inherently unlikable. Angórë, he saw, brought much of the town's hostility upon himself with his strange ways and aloof manner. The healer spoke of the sleeping death that sometimes took infants without reason or warning, but within days, the townsfolk whispered of a boy who could steal the breath of a babe. The lord's wife placed the blame firmly on Angórë, and not even Alatundar, recalled from Armenelos, could make her see reason.  
  
At last, the lord despaired of checking the wildfire that had grown beyond his control. "There is nothing else for it, Alatundar. He must be sent away," he sighed.  
  
"It is a bad business," his heir agreed. "Yet it is perhaps for the best. He shall need a vocation anyhow. He is good with numbers - perhaps he might make a pilot."  
  
The lord offered a tight smile. Recent days had brought uneasiness to his heart. His honesty made him see his fault in the crumbled remains of his family.  
  
Alatundar, at least, remained ever sensible. "I shall write to some of the ship's captains I have come to know in Armenelos. I am certain they will provide a situation for my brother, though he is yet young."  
  



	2. The Sorcerer

**Disclaimer:** All characters belong to Tolkien aside from original characters needed to move the story along. Notes on the story and Adûnaic Grammar follow in the next chapter.  
  


**The Sorcerer**  
  


**Pelargir, Second Age 1826**  
  
Pûtabas was not then the great port it would become under Númenórean rule. Its native fishermen looked upon the newcomers with distaste and fear, apprehending all too well the bleak outlook for their people. Angórë had seen few signs of life in the village since his ship had landed to take on water and lemons. [20]  
  
They were to put out in the morning, and Angórë had gone below deck to his bunk, less tired than weary. He found his work challenging enough, but he had little to do when not at sea. He had hardly settled down when the steward, in such haste that he nearly fell down the narrow stairs, called to those in the hold. "All hands on deck! To arms, lads, we are boarded!"  
  
Well, this certainly was not usual. Angórë could not help feeling a thrill of excitement as he took up his knife and followed his shipmates to the deck. In their black clothing, the raiding party seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, but clearly they had overwhelmed the ship's men. Most of those on deck when the raid began lay already dead or wounded. The Captain still held out, and seeing an opportunity to better himself - if he lived - Angórë launched himself at one of the men attacking the Captain. His small knife could not match the man's heavy sword however, and he would have perished without a stroke of luck: the Captain gave a dying cry and fell.  
  
Angórë took the Captain's sword and faced his foe anew. The weapon was too heavy, and he, too inexperienced, yet it seemed that he had been born to the sword, so neatly did he wield it. He had the advantage of his opponent, and would have finished him had not another man come to his fellow's aid. The pair soon backed Angórë nearly against the rail.  
  
Steadying his mind, the boy caught the eye of the first man, and with swords locked, the two held still for a breathless moment. With a curse, the man fell back, clawing at his eyes. The second man advanced and got a knife between the eyes for his trouble. Angórë leapt for the railing, abandoning ship with the rest of the surviving crew. A hand grasped him by the hair and pulled him up so that his feet dangled in the air.  
  
The tallest of the raiders had captured him. Angórë kicked at the man, but found the enormous, muscular frame indifferent as a stone. Nor would the man allow the boy to manipulate him; he seemed immune to Angórë's powers. To his surprise, his captor spoke to him not in the strange tongue of the other raiders, but in Adûnaic.  
  
"This one has some spirit, and maybe some sorcery." He set the boy on his feet, though he kept one meaty hand wrapped around Angórë's hair. "But you are no match for my Lord, young whelp," the man laughed. He glanced at the first man Angórë had faced - that one lay on the deck, still pawing at his eyes.  
  
"Do not feel bad - you have been bested by one more powerful than you," he said to the man in a kindly voice. He took a torch from its holder. "And thus I have no use for you." He buried the torch in the man's tangled, greasy hair. Screams and a horrid odor of roasting pork filled the air. The man turned to the others. "We ride - and take the boy with us."  
  
"I think my Lord will find you interesting," he added, pushing Angórë before him. "Your little tricks are useless against me, boy, so do not hope for escape. But if you are good, we will do you no harm."  
  
They disembarked, several men carrying chests taken from the hold. The last of the men threw kerosene on the boat and set it alight. They passed through the darkened village; if the people of Pûtabas did not care for the Númenóreans, these black-clothed Easterlings terrified them. In the woods beyond the village, they met those left behind to guard the horses and supplies. The leader finally released Angórë's hair and tied his hands in front of him with rope. The bonds were strong and tight, but not uncomfortably so. He tossed the boy easily onto his great steed and swung up behind him. The men departed with a horrible howling. Angórë recognized that there was nothing otherworldly about their cries, yet it chilled him the same. He could imagine the villagers cowering in their homes.  
  
"What is your name, boy?" the man asked, after they had ridden some time.  
  
"Angórë."  
  
The man sniffed. "An Elvish name." It confirmed what he had thought - the boy came of highborn roots.  
  
Angórë had never thought much about the elves; he had never met any. "You do not care for elves?"  
  
The man laughed harshly. "My father came from your home, though he was not of your kind - his people were simple folk, laborers in the quarries of Ondosto. He followed his lord into war when he was but your age - a war in which men sacrificed their short lives at the whim of an immortal, an elf who had seen more years than Númenor itself. For this elf, boys of our race were slaughtered on fields of battle. My father soon decided that he was fighting for the wrong cause and joined the enemy."  
  
Angórë gasped. "He fought for Sauron!"  
  
The man cast a dark look upon the boy. "We do not speak that name or any other. We call him _Durbgu dashshu_, 'Lord of the Earth', and that is enough." [21]  
  
Angórë digested this. Seeing that his situation could not get worse, he dared another question. "What became of your father?"  
  
"After the war, he came east with those who survived. For a time, they settled in the Wilderland, and there I was born, but my mother's people stayed in no place long. The elves of the wood are a fierce and warlike folk, caring little for simple men. They drove us unmercifully, until none but the women and children remained, for their arrows rarely fail to find a target.  
  
"As outlaws we have lived, hated by elves and Edain alike, those who claim righteousness. They have harried our families that we could not settle."  
  
Angórë knew what it was like to be wanted nowhere.  
  
"In Durbgu dashshu there is power. The time will come when his enemies shall be those who flee."  
  
As day eased across the eastern sky, the man called a halt. Angórë's stomach rumbled as the scent of roasted meat rose from the fire. By the time he had eaten and shared the noxious but potent ale that served as drink, Angórë could hardly keep his eyes open. The man threw a bedroll into his arms, jolting him awake.  
  
"Remember what I said, boy, about trying to escape. The poor wretch who last slept in that bedroll was of such a mind, and we just ate his hindquarters for supper." He laughed gaily at the revolted expression on the boy's face. "Nay, 'twas the fine Númenórean beef from your ship we had."  
  
Angórë cursed himself for his gullibility. He had quickly learned that the man had little patience for weakness. The man seemed to think him useful, and if he wanted to stay alive, he guessed that he should not disabuse the man of this notion. As he fell asleep, it occurred to him that no one had ever found him useful.  
  


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They traveled northeast, mostly by night. After several days, a dark and forbidding mountain range rose in the east. They left the forest for something of a road, and now rode openly by day. The men accompanying them grew increasingly uneasy as the party turned due east and took a road paved with some sort of black rock. It climbed steeply for some time, and when they stopped for the night, they had reached the summit of the pass. Great peaks of jagged teeth leered from every direction and Angórë noted something foul and acidic in the mist that settled over the camp. They descended into a valley quite unlike anything Angórë had ever seen: a barren wasteland, interrupted only by barbed rocks and waterless crevices. Through three days' ride neither the landscape nor the heavy cloud cover changed until they reached the foot of a great, smoking mountain. Two more days brought a black tower into view.  
  
The other men would go no further, and the leader ordered them to set up camp. With Angórë, he continued toward the tower, reaching it as dim daylight faded into utterly black night.  
  
A gravely voice shouted in the night, speaking a tongue that hurt the boy's ears. Though Adûnaic seemed clumsy to one accustomed to the soft nuances of Sindarin, this language sounded positively foul. The man replied in the same language, and torches flared to life. A twisted and hideous creature thrust the light in their faces. An orc, Angórë guessed. It had a horrid stench, remarkable, as he was not terribly clean himself.  
  
The orc recognized the man and seemed to become apologetic. The man dismounted and pulled Angórë from the horse so suddenly that his tired legs nearly failed to support him. He yanked the boy upright and untied his hands. "I think you are clever enough to know not to run off in Mordor," the man said. He pushed the boy in front of him, and they passed through a pair of enormous iron gates.  
  
Up a winding stair they went, climbing high into the tower. They came to another door, guarded by more orcs. One pulled open a slit in the heavy door and spoke in his guttural tongue to someone - or thing - within.  
  
A tall, thin man opened the portal. He led them forth, coming to a sudden halt before a throne of obsidian. There sat the tallest man - for so he appeared - Angórë had yet seen. His massive arms were banded with muscle and he had long, dark hair curiously similar in shade - or lack of light - to his own. His face was fair, fairer even than that of Angórë's father, and he wore a benign expression. Only when Angórë looked in his eyes did he sense the terrible master on the throne, for the eyes glittered with ice.  
  
He dropped his gaze quickly, unable to endure the glare of such eyes.  
  
Beside him, the man bowed reverently, and Angórë hastily did the same. The man spoke with the figure on the throne in that same irritating language, and then the Dark Lord did something surprising.  
  
"Come closer, child, that I may look at you," he said in Sindarin.  
  
Angórë dragged his feet forward, not a little frightened. A long finger tipped his chin up, forcing him to look into those terrible eyes.  
  
"You know what I am."  
  
What answer did he want? Sauron, the Abhorred? The Dark Lord? Durbgu dashshu, Lord of the Earth? Somehow, Angórë thought none of these quite right. He settled on the most basic answer, recalling history lessons he had learned well. "You are a Maia," he said tentatively.  
  
This answer seemed to please him. "In your blood runs the power of my kind - it has thinned through the generations, but it is stronger in you than in most. You have suffered for it, yet I tell you now it is a gift." [22]  
  
Angórë found the Dark Lord's voice strangely soothing.  
  
_"O le echedithon vorguldir veleg, a ti i fuianner le, o le pedithar vi anwar a girithar o goe ir anglennal."_ ["Of you I shall make a great black sorcerer, and those who have hated you will speak of you in awe, and will shudder in fear of you wherever you go."] [23]  
  
Sauron looked at the man. "Khamûl, you have done well. A rare gem, you have found."  
  
Khamûl bowed again. "I am only glad to serve you, Durbgu dashshu."  
  
Having dismissed the humans, Sauron sat in thought. Indeed, Khamûl had made a great discovery. The boy stank of the blood of Lúthien - and so he bore also the legacy of Melian. The boy had power, and Sauron knew that he would make a fearsome sorcerer. Ah, Khamûl hardly knew. A whelp, he had brought to _Lugbúrz_, a mere boy - yet this boy would be the greatest of the Dark Lord's servants. [24]  
  
Sauron - Durbgu dashshu, Angórë reminded himself - was true to his word, and Angórë proved an apt pupil. He had no choice, really - though he was not a prisoner, he had no illusions about his chances for escape, and he supposed he had better please the Maia if he wanted to stay alive. He learned to bend the will of others to his own, and to conjure a shadow of blackness. He learned the art of necromancy, and he found many souls in Mordor on which to practice - men and elves imprisoned in life and kept there in death by the arts of Sauron. Orcs, of course, had also perished here, and curiously, the essence of their life revealed an Elven fëa. They feared the call of Mandos, and remained by choice in the Black Lands. Angórë found these unhappy spirits easiest of all to control. [25]  
  
All the while, Sauron reminded him of the slights he had suffered, of the retribution those from his past had coming. The spark of anger grew to a flame, a burning desire for vengeance. It seemed to Angórë that none had understood him as did the Maia; none had loved him so well.  
  
Still one thing remained to ensure the boy's undying fealty, and this Sauron presented to the boy - a man now, really - when he was satisfied that Angórë would be all he had hoped. With the ring, Angórë found that his powers increased greatly. He could deny nothing to his Lord, no matter how base or cruel might be the wishes he carried out. Indeed, it seemed to him that all he did at the behest of Durbgu dashshu sprung from his own desires, and that the tortures he devised fed his very soul, so that he wished only to do more.  
  
**Númenor, Second Age 1900**  
  
His errand arose by the will of his Master, but his own purpose in returning to the island did not displease Sauron. In the north and east, where none might know him, he went about as a nameless wanderer, his presence and appearance unremarkable. In each town, he dropped words well-chosen, words of discontent. To the west he did not go, for there lived the Faithful, and Sauron had sown in his heart a deep hatred of the elves and those they called _elvellyn_. He stayed longest in Armenelos, blending easily into the city, breathing malice in the darkest taverns and narrowest streets. [26]  
  
At last, his errantry complete, he turned southward. He shed his traveler's clothes for the fine raiment of a great lord, and arrived at Nindamos in triumphant return.  
  
"_Muindor!_ Can it really be you?" Alatundar greeted his sibling warmly. To his surprise, Angórë found himself returning some of the sentiment. [27]  
  
Alatundar looked at his brother in wonder. The boy who had gone to sea had lost the lankiness of youth. He returned a man, fair of face and broad of shoulder, tall as his lineage predicted. He wore the finest velvet coat and softest leather breeches, with a waistcoat of delicate silk embroidered by the talented maids of Harad.  
  
"Life in Ennor agrees with you, Angórë," Alatundar said, pouring brandy from an ancient bottle. "This calls for the best of our grandfather's store." They took seats by the fire. "You must tell me what fortune has availed you," he said.  
  
Angórë hid a smirk, imagining his brother's shock, were he to tell the truth. Instead, he changed the subject. "I would rather hear what has happened here in my absence. Adar is well?"  
  
Their father had passed his title and responsibilities to his son, as did many nobles after the manner of the Kings of Númenor. The 'old lord', as the townsfolk had dubbed him (Alatundar they named the 'young lord'), spent his time playing chess at the tavern, "though none can best those wily fishermen."  
  
Their mother had come to a less peaceful end, succumbing to the evils of drink, to which she had turned for comfort after her daughter's death. Alatundar had married and had children of his own. Angórë briefly met the lady as she herded the younger ones off to bed. They seemed happy enough, and when Alatundar's wife joined them later, he noted they shared an affection his parents had lacked.  
  
At last, the conversation turned to a topic of greater interest to Angórë. "I am certain you will remember Nîphrûkh, the son of Kulbatân. Age, I fear, has made him no less foolish," Alatundar said with a sour expression.  
  
Nîphrûkh had made himself most unpopular since his father's estate had come to him. He quarreled often with Alatundar and with the Master of Nindamos. He had not the intelligence or fine art of diplomacy that his father had wielded into such wealth. Nîphrûkh relied on more direct means: threats and coercion. He had frittered away his riches on a grandiose manor ("the eyesore," Alatundar's wife observed). Poor management had turned his father's rich timberlands to a wasteland of erosion and blight.  
  
Angórë heard this with a measure of disappointment. He had planned his tormentor's ruin in delicious detail, but Nîphrûkh had already set himself on the path to ignominy. A man of more wisdom might have understood that forces beyond the understanding of man would bring retribution upon the cruel. Angórë could not let his vengeance lie. His nature defied this higher course, and his teacher had not told him how evildoing must end, for Sauron himself did not expect it.  
  
The merchant's wife had fared not much better: years of ill-use left a shadow in place of the effervescent nursemaid. Nîphrûkh had still one treasure untarnished: his daughter, a lovely girl of marriageable age, innocent and sweet and the fair pleasure of her father's life. A plan, a very wicked plan, formed as Angórë considered the girl. He would take his time - he knew precisely how to manage long campaigns that would in the end yield exactly the fruit he wished to cultivate.  
  
First, he had to gain the trust of Nîphrûkh, but this proved easier than he anticipated. Privately, Nîphrûkh thought his old rival stunningly naïve, for the young lord's brother agreed to seed some rather unsavory business transactions. In more desperate straights than his enemies imagined, Nîphrûkh's fortunes had turned for the better at just the right moment, and he meant to keep Angórë's purse strings open to him. The merchant's greed soon had him welcoming Angórë as if a long-lost friend had returned, and on many a night, the two men kept amiable company in Nîphrûkh's home.  
  
"By the by," Angórë began on one such night, schooling his expression to benign effect. Underneath he seethed with impatience - how much longer must he suffer this fool? "Would you be so kind as to lend me your daughter's arm for my sister's fête this coming week? I find myself without a partner."  
  
The other man's eyes gleamed. Such an event would expose his daughter to the cream of society - perhaps Angórë might have designs on her himself. This black-hearted man could not resist the lure of gold, even in matters concerning the daughter he genuinely loved.  
  
Thus began a courtship of sorts. With her sweet disposition, Azruth fell guilelessly under the spell of the handsome noble. She did not think for a minute that he held more than a passing interest in her, for she was a good deal more sensible than her father, but something drew her to him, though she could not say what. She found his offers to squire her to dances at the lord's manor and festivals in the town irresistible.  
  
Angórë had nursed bitter bile for nearly a century. So close had he come to the final blow, he rather relished its anticipation. It did not hurt that the golden-haired girl recalled her mother with uncanny likeness. Patiently, he worked to gain her trust, and after many months of inane tea dances and dinner parties, he judged it safe to set his plan in motion.  
  
"What is this surprise?" Azruth asked as they rode westward early one morning. They had passed into Hyarnustar and rode through vineyards and the sprawling estates of the winemakers. At noon, they reached a village of moderate size. Here, the folk had the first wine of the season, and had laid out a great feast in celebration. The girl delighted in such things, for her friendly nature disarmed the most guarded strangers, and too early for her did the long shadows of afternoon fall.  
  
They began the long ride home, Azruth chattering like a starling about the people she had met. Soon after the light began to fail in earnest, Angórë suddenly bid his companion to be quiet. They held up their horses and Azruth peered into the twilight at the road ahead, at last seeing the approaching men.  
  
"Highwaymen," Angórë hissed, feigning surprise.  
  
The men he had hired rode swiftly upon them, brandishing their knives. "Your coins and valuables, and if you are quick about it, you will wake to see the sun rise."  
  
"Do as we are told," Angórë advised the girl. He gave up a ring with the amulet of his family and a purse of coins.  
  
"Now your horses - they look like fine beasts!" Alatundar would lament the loss, for they were indeed valuable steeds.  
  
"And this ring?" their captain pointed.  
  
"That is a trinket of no value to any save myself," Angórë said. He had promised these rogues the horses and his purse with a specified number of gold pieces. The men had turned greedy - dangerously so. Angórë looked into the captain's eyes until the other backed away, shaken by the image he had seen in Angórë's pitiless grey eyes. With trembling hands, the man gathered the reins of his horse and the one he had taken from Angórë.  
  
"Leave them!" he shouted, spurring his horse.  
  
"But what about - " another man started.  
  
"Hold your tongue, fool, if you know what is good for you," he cried, his face ashen as if he had seen a vision of Morgoth himself. And perhaps he had.  
  
"We passed a village a league or so back - I think it best to return there and ask for aid," Angórë said.  
  
Azruth frowned; she could not afford to pass the night un-chaperoned in the company of a man.  
  
"We will get lodging at the inn - if we explain our predicament, I am sure the innkeeper's wife will find decent lodging for you," Angórë suggested.  
  
This was done, and Azruth's reputation seemed safe enough in the narrow bed of a maid's room in the family quarters. In the deep of the night, however, she woke with great uneasiness and saw that Angórë had somehow come into her room.  
  
Her cry died on her lips and she found herself helpless to resist the less-than-gentle fingers that roved over her frozen body. Her eyes wide with horror, she could not even scream as her chastity was taken. Afterward, he sat with his hand on her belly, silent for a time. At last, he smiled to himself, and then turned that chilling smile upon her.  
  
"You will say nothing of this. You will not be believed, for there is not a mark on you, and I have no intention of debasing the noble lineage of my forefathers with marriage to a common whore." Angórë meant to leave Númenor well before the growing evidence belied her ruination.  
  
She winced at his words; though too trusting, she was not a stupid girl. Everything Angórë spoke was true. Her only hope lay in secrecy, that her shame remain unknown, for no man would want her otherwise - though it seemed to her that the very idea of anyone touching her as Angórë had done would sicken her.  
  
Angórë had one final card to deal. Having secured a ship, he called upon Nîphrûkh the night before he was to sail. The man heard the news of his new friend's departure with alarm; his dubious ventures had proved unforthcoming and he had hoped to persuade Angórë to join him in yet another desperate scheme. Yet, Angórë opened his purse one last time.  
  
"Please accept this in gratitude for your daughter's companionship during my stay. She is an excellent girl, and I quite enjoyed her company.  
  
"I would like to take my leave of her," he added innocuously. "I am sorry that she has been unwell this past week."  
  
Angórë found the girl trembling behind the door of a small sitting room.  
  
"You are not welcome here. What I must pretend for the sake of my reputation in public does not prevent me from telling you now that your presence is odious to me."  
  
"Dear lady! I come only to pay my respects. Indeed, I have paid your father handsomely for your services."  
  
With her stinging slap came an image flashing before his mind: he saw another blond woman; he heard cries and shouts, the sounds of battle. He saw himself fall in agony, heard a thin, ghastly wail and realized that it came from his soul. Regaining the present, he felt Azruth's eyes on him. Her back straightened, her head raised, the woman regarded him with icy calm. Unable to retrieve his composure, he fled.  
  
The vivid image faded in the stiff, salty wind as he sailed for Rómenna. From there, he would get passage to Middle-earth. When his feet found solid ground at Lond Daer, the Ring came alive, its pulse a reminder of the link too long sundered by the sea. Angórë felt anew the harmony of his will with that of Sauron, and he welcomed it.  
  
**Rhûn, 2251 Second Age**  
  
An acrid odor of smoke hung in the air. Across a muddy field, its young wheat crop now trampled to ruin, only charred beams and twisted bits of metal remained of the village. With precise efficiency, young men in smart uniforms of black herded the surviving villagers into two groups, tearing babies from the arms of mothers, sons from the frail old fathers who leaned on them for support.  
  
Now the soldiers stood over the human spoils with whips and clubs, cowing them into silence. Chained together as were the captives, those nearest to the hysterical ones moved quickly to stop their cries, for the guards took little care to aim their lashes.  
  
The young women would go to Harad and other places south, where they would fetch a good price. The young men would end their days working deep in the bowels of Mordor. Orcs oversaw the rejected captives - the old, the very young and the infirm. What time remained to them would be mercifully short.  
  
A lone figure sat on a massive stallion of deepest ebony. The Captain wore garments similar to those of the soldiers. Long hair flowed over hood and mantle, blacker still than horse or cloak, save a forelock of gleaming white. The Captain's face seemed neither young nor old, lined but not yet withered. And his eyes - ah, those eyes - if one dared to look at them - glowed with red fire.  
  
Two orcs prodded a man forward. As they reached the Captain, the man fell to his knees in despair.  
  
"_Grangulshu_, we bring the village leader." [28]  
  
"Get him up," the Captain snapped. The orcs dragged the man to his feet. "Make him look upon his people."  
  
Clawed hands held the man's face so that it could not turn from the terrified eyes of the villagers.  
  
"Three times my soldiers came to take tribute and men for my armies. Three times you refused what was due to me, as your King, and due to the Lord whom I serve."  
  
The master of the village spat. "Your Lord is darkness and my people acknowledge no minion of darkness as our King."  
  
The Captain laughed. "I see now that your people have followed a fool into ruin. Darkness is the gift of Man - the darkness of the grave. But the grave is not for you, though you shall long for it, when your spirit no longer wears flesh yet labors in torment.  
  
"That is your fate, but not the fate of your people. Look now, and see how they suffer. See what in pride and purity you have wrought upon them!"  
  
At the Captain's signal, orcs fell upon the remaining villagers, butchering some, defiling others. 'Sport', the orcs called it, and they had waited long for this reward.  
  
As had the Black Captain, who tipped his face to the black sky in ecstasy, inhaling the scent of blood and fear.  
  
Day broke. The orcs scurried to hide from the sun, but no relief came for the village leader. Tied to a tree, he endured the cries of pain and pleas for death of his remaining folk.  
  
At the entrance to the Captain's tent, two men stood guard, their eyes lowered unhappily.  
  
"Grangulshu, there is a visitor within."  
  
"We could not stop him - he has powers, Grangulshu," the other man added, looking carefully away from the Captain's eyes. "He comes with news from _Daghburz_." [29]  
  
"Are you guards or are you doormen?" The two men recoiled. The Captain stalked into his tent. He would deal with the men later.  
  
Within stood a creature in garments similar to those of the Captain. Yet this creature had no longer youth. Indeed, he looked as if he had lived too long, as if the marcescence of death could no longer wait for the spirit to depart from its body. Unruly dark hair had turned to grey, the broad face withered. His eyes burned red with the fire of Udûn. "Grangulshu. The service of Durbgu dashshu has been good to you."  
  
The Black Captain laughed. "These trappings - they are impressive to mortals. Yet they will rot and turn to dust." He would not.  
  
Khamûl's face broke into a grotesque smile, the smile of one who shares a secret. The Captain's tent bore silk hangings, chalices of gold and other spoils of war. On the floor in the corner, a comely maid lay sprawled. The stink of fear invigorated; Khamûl could understand why his Captain had not yet touched the girl. Like a fine Dorwinion wine, uncorked to breathe, her odor intoxicated with mere anticipation. He regretted for a moment that his fading corporeality no longer afforded him such pleasures of the flesh.  
  
As they traded tidings, a scuffle and shouting broke out in front of the tent. With a curse, the Captain left to see what caused the disturbance. He found three orcs - those left to guard the village leader - snarling at one another. He caught one of the hideous creatures by the ear. "What is the meaning of this?"  
  
The orc looked at the ground, to the side, anywhere but into those eyes of fire. "The leader, Grangulshu, he's escaped."  
  
"Then find him," the Captain commanded in a tone that conveyed a razor thin sliver of patience remaining to him.  
  
The orc scurried off, looking hatefully at the bright sky. "Bring Shigurt here," the Captain ordered one of his guardsmen.  
  
The orc captain arrived and waited, shifting his feet uneasily outside the tent. Any orc so foolish as to rush into his tent without leave would soon find himself missing a head. At last, the Captain lifted the tent flap.  
  
"Were you not to have seen to it that the leader was tied securely?"  
  
"Sha! Gharg can't tie a decent knot."  
  
"Then why did you give to him the task of tying the man up?" the Captain asked in a patient voice.  
  
Shigurt looked at the Captain with dawning fear. He knew that voice. The Captain had run out of patience, and he, Shigurt, would pay.  
  
Indeed, something had overcome the unfortunate orc captain. He gasped, reaching for his throat.  
  
"Grangulshu!" he rasped. The orc's eyes bulged and burst from their sockets, blood ran from his ears and he collapsed in a twitching heap.  
  
Khamûl looked at the orcs remains and recalled the boy he had captured, and wonderment filled him. Jealousy did not occur to him; so strong was his devotion to Sauron that he accepted the other man's authority without question. Grangulshu, as he called himself now (for the Elvishness of his native tongue now seemed distasteful to him), had proved himself superior in every way. He had invented cruelties even Khamûl's mind could not conceive. He controlled spirits and men. If Khamûl had once been capable of resisting Angórë's intuitive powers, he knew he could not match the sorcerer Grangulshu.  
  
"Our Lord is gathering the Ringbearers to him."  
  
This the Black Captain already knew. He knew also that the other men had begun to fade into wraiths. With his noble Númenórean blood and the long life it afforded, he alone remained entirely corporeal.  
  
"They are of another breed," Khamûl said.  
  
They wished for death and yet could not have it, and all the while their will fell increasingly under the dominion of Sauron. "They did not know the power of our Lord until now," the Captain said to Khamûl. The two men did not await the subjugation of their will, nor did they anticipate their fading with dread. From the outset, Sauron had entirely seduced them and they had willingly spent their mortal lives doing his bidding. They were zealots among the laity: the Dunlendings had no love for evil, and mistook Sauron for a friend in their struggles with the hated Númenóreans. The Easterlings and rebellious Númenóreans had welcomed the wealth and power bought by their Rings. To find themselves now slaves to the will of another horrified them; some repented of all they had done, but the One Ring held them fast. Their debts had come due.  
  
The Black Captain alone knew the secret of the Rings. Sauron had some understanding of tyranny. He preferred to rule by force, but would pretend kindness at necessity, and he knew that those he most trusted, those most intimately involved in his plans would prove more loyal to him if they served him in devotion and not fear. In his twisted way, Sauron had even a measure of fondness for his acolyte, if only as a master smith had affection for his creations. He had taken a very jewel of Númenor, a descendant of hated Lúthien and a bright promise among the Edain, and twisted him into a talented servant of darkness. [30, 31]  
  
Sauron's most dreadful creation did not fear the fate awaiting him. His fair guise he found useful, but he saw that its loss would only augment his powers of terror, and as for his will, it belonged already to his Lord. In fading he would became only more terrible. Orcs and men would recoil in horror before all of the ghoulish Ringbearers, but they feared none so much as their Captain.  
  


---------------------------------------------------  
  


Olórin finished his story. Glorfindel stared unseeingly into the fire, pondering it all. "Yet, I feel something of pity for the child, and I lament that a descendant of Elros came to such wickedness."  
  
"So little effort does it take to dispense kindness. Those least deserving of pity are those most in need of it. _Pity and Mercy: not to strike without need._ The people of Nindamos struck with cruel words and jests at a harmless boy, and they made that harmless boy a monster." [32]  
  
Olórin settled into his bedroll. Glorfindel looked thoughtful as he banked the fire. One part of Olórin's story still troubled him. "The Avari, whom Khamûl accused of hunting his people - are they really so ruthless?"  
  
The Maia snorted. "Khamûl's people were thieves. Regardless of what the good Noldor of Tol Eressëa might claim, they did not fight all the battles against Sauron. For the Silvan Elves of the Greenwood and the good men of the Wilderland, Sauron's threat did not end with his flight from Eriador."  
  
"Still, Khamûl may have believed that he spoke the truth," Glorfindel mused. After all, by promoting such rivalries and suspicions, Morgoth and Sauron had destroyed whole continents. "If so, than by no accident does this evil arise in the Greenwood."  
  
**~Epilogue~**  
  
**Dol Guldur, Third Age 1075**  
  
Azuk drew himself up to his full height as the new company reached the watchtower. "You must be the reinforcements the higher-ups ordered." He greeted their arrival without enthusiasm - he had charge of the orcs here, and wanted no challenge from another ambitious captain. Some new business was afoot, but Azuk knew better than to ask questions. He would have to dispose of this Gozrat in his own way.  
  
"I'll have one of the snaga show you where you can put your lads later," he told the captain, a short, swarthy creature, as they ambled up the narrow path to the ancient elven citadel. "I don't know as yet what them upstairs want to do with your lot." [33]  
  
"Are they all they're cracked up to be, the Nazgûl?" Gozrat wondered.  
  
Azuk let out a gravelly laugh. "Gar! You get near 'em, you'll know it. The smaller one is bad enough, but the Head Nazgûl, he don't like orcs much. He's the one you'll want to stay clear of, if you want to keep your head about you." As they neared the top, they veered off onto an iron platform built into the side of the hill and came at last to a heavy black door, guarded by a pair of orcs. "The Nazgûl had a fair cleaning to do, what with all the Elvish curses on the place. The only one the Head couldn't break was the spell over the citadel proper. Just as well, I think - it's all open, near as I can tell, under the sun all day."  
  
A few torches barely lit the interior. They tramped through passages and cellars, halting outside an oaken door. A single guard stood here, and he pointed to Azuk. "Just you."  
  
Azuk entered the room with dread. "The orcs from the Misty Mountains have come."  
  
A creature swathed in black turned to him. Deep under his hood, red eyes burned. "How many?"  
  
Azuk cursed himself. He had not asked. "A couple hundred," he guessed.  
  
"Put them below. I will have orders for them later."  
  
Azuk counted himself fortunate that the Black Captain had other matters on his mind. Still, the Nazgûl had slipped. He could not put Gozrat's orcs in with Azuk's - the two companies would fight. Azuk said nothing of this, however. The Nazgûl had been acting strangely these days - best not to antagonize them. Azuk hastily backed out of the room.  
  
The Black Captain smirked. He knew well that the fool orc had lied. The creatures would sort themselves out, leaving only the strongest and most cunning. The best of the lot would remain to defend the fortress; the best would remain to breed a new elite force, _uruk_ for the coming day. [34]  
  
He had completed his preparations; he had left nothing to chance. Dol Guldur had once served elves as a fortress against Morgoth's creatures, and would now serve Sauron's minions in kind. Sorcery had cleansed the stones of Elven influence; sorcery had set new curses upon the naked hill, had infested the forest around them, keeping the hated elves at bay.  
  
A foul wind swept through the Greenwood that night, leaving a swathe of corruption in its wake. Trees groaned as the wind twisted the forest into misshapen, rot-infested thickets. Idyllic ponds turned to fetid bogs and a sickly odor of decaying vegetation permeated the air.  
  
The orcs in the subterranean rooms of the fortress stopped their quarrelling and huddled in shaking fear. In the upper rooms, torches failed, and the orc standing guard outside the Black Captain's room fled in terror. Had he looked inside, had he the special vision of the Ringbearers, he would have seen a sight chilling even to such a debased creature. In the utter blackness of the windowless room, a specter of ages unmarked revealed itself to the two wraiths.  
  
He appeared in his last material form, encased in gleaming armor. A helm hid his face, save a single slot. From this tenebrous recess, a single, lidless eye glowed red, pulsing with incarnate defiance of those who thought him broken.  
  
Had that faint-hearted orc the eyes to see it, he would have wondered at the strange tableau. He would have seen the cruel Captain in his true form, skeletal under wraps of a rotting death shroud, bearing a many-toothed crown upon long, white hair. He would have seen that cruel Captain sink to his knees.  
  
The wasted features, normally twisted in a predatory leer, had smoothed to something grotesquely beautiful, looking up in awe and adoration. In the mind of the Black Captain, the world would soon be set to rights: his Lord had risen again to cover the lands in shadow, to wreak vengeance upon the hated elves and their mortal allies.  
  
"Durbgu dashshu, at last you have returned."  
  



	3. Story Notes

**Disclaimer:** Adûnaic belongs to Tolkien. All mistakes belong to me.  
  


**Story Notes**

  
  
Languages used in this story: Could that _'forgotten tongue'_ used at the gates of Minas Tirith be Adûnaic? Some of the Nazgûl came from Númenor. To choose an Adan to be his most loyal servant would certainly suit Sauron's sense of irony. For reasons the story should explain, I have supposed that the Witch-king was not a commoner, but a noble descendant of Elros. The nobles generally took names in Quenya, though it was only a book-language to them - they used Sindarin in daily life. The Witch-king must have known Adûnaic and later Westron. The Nine used the Black Speech in Mordor and presumably among themselves. [5]  
  
At the time the story begins, the Line of Elros lived about 400 years. Other Númenóreans lived about 240 years. The Nine also were afforded a longer lifespan before fading into the living dead. [6, 7]  
  


* * *

  
[1] _'Their peril is almost entirely due to the unreasoning _fear_ which they inspire.'_  

    (ref _The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien_, Letter 210, p 272 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[2] 'we are told that he spares Grima…'  

    (ref _Unfinished Tales_, 'The Hunt for the Ring' p 356 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[3] _'Then the Black Captain rose in his stirrups…and the doors tumbled in riven fragments to the ground.'_  

    (ref _LOTR_, 'ROTK' V. 4. p 810 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[4] The Ring permits him complete control over the Ringwraiths.  

    _'...its wearer could see the thoughts of all those that used the lesser rings, could govern all that they did, and in the end could utterly enslave them.'_ (ref _The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien_, Letter 131, p 152 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[5] Some of the Nazgûl came from Númenor...the nobles generally took names in Quenya...they used Sindarin in daily life. The Witch-king must have known Adûnaic and later Westron. The Nine used the Black Speech in Mordor and presumably among themselves.  

    (ref _The Silmarillion_, 'Akallabêth' p 320 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey); (ref _LOTR_, 'Appendix F', Of Men and Of Other Races pp 1102-1105 pub. Houghton Mifflin); (ref _Unfinished Tales_, 'Aldarion and Erendis' p 226 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[6] Other Númenóreans lived about 240 years.  

    (ref _Unfinished Tales_, 'The Line of Elros: Kings of Númenor' p 228 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[7] The Nine also were afforded a longer lifespan  

    (ref _The Silmarillion_ 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age' p 346 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[8] Thus had he come to Ennor; thus had his companion returned.  

    Tolkien wrote two essays on Glorfindel - in the second, he placed Glorfindel's return to ME much earlier, before the War of the Elves and Sauron. This is a later work and thus probably more canonical, but for the purposes of this story, I've gone with Tolkien's first idea, that Glorfindel came to ME with Gandalf in the Third Age. The actual dates of Gandalf's arrival and the discovery of evil in Mirkwood (not to mention Sauron's arrival at Dol Guldur) are rather vague, however - I've done my best to select a date that seems reasonable. (ref _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_, 'Last Writings' p 377 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[9] "…he differed from men as you do from elves"  

    Glorfindel re-embodied was not an ordinary elf - he was nearly equal to the Maiar in power. (ref _The Peoples of Middle-Earth_, 'Last Writings' p 381 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[10] _Eruhíni_  

    Children of Eru (Q)  
  

[11] "Sauron aims not to destroy, but to control and corrupt."  

    (ref _Morgoth's Ring_, 'Myths Transformed' VII (i) pp 364-8 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[12] Ona  

    'Gram' - this is simply Bad Elvish. Tolkien failed to leave us with words in Quenya or Sindarin for 'Grandmother' and 'Grandfather' (we do have words in Qenya, but they are not easily updated). I used the root ONO-, 'beget' that is the basis of words for parent, but I was really after a word that would sound like a child's nickname for 'Grandmother'. The etymology makes about as much sense as 'Gram' from 'Grandmother'.  
  

[13] _"Craban vorn vuio nin si, na nôl dín blabo raifn lín."_  

    "Black crow serve me now, at his head, beat your wings." (S) _morn_ is lenited to _vorn_ as an adjective following its subject; _buio_ is the imperative conjugation of _buia-_, 'to serve', lenited as a verb following its subject; _(n)dôl_ is lenited to _nôl_ as the object of the preposition _na_; _tín_ is lenited to _dín_ as an adjectival pronoun following its object; _blabo_ is the imperative conjugation of _blab-_; _raifn_ is presumably the plural of _rafn_  
  

[14] _"Farn! Enni!"_  

    "Enough! To me!" (S)  
  

[15] "The merchants and privateers hold the Council of the Sceptre."  

    In the time of Tar-Meneldur, only three members of the Council were of the Line of Elros. Presumably, this continues to hold true in later days. (ref _Unfinished Tales_, 'Aldarion and Erendis' p 227 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[16] The descendants of Atanalcar  

    Atanalcar is mentioned once, to my knowledge: in the genealogical table that accompanies 'Aldarion and Erendis'. Here, he is the youngest son of Elros. It is indicated that he had male heirs, though as far as I know, nothing further is said of his line. I figured it was safe to borrow him for my purposes, though he probably would not be pleased to be stuck with the Witch-king as a descendant. (ref _Unfinished Tales_, 'Aldarion and Erendis' p 221 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[17] _khôrí 'nhê_  

    my lady (Ad.) _khôrí_ is derived from _khôr_, 'lord', with the feminine ending _-í_; _'n_ is the common form of _an_, 'of'; _hê_ is presumably 'me' (see 'Notes on Adûnaic Grammar' for more information and references)  
  

[18] _Eruhantalë_  

    Thanksgiving to Eru (Q). This was the fall ceremony of prayer to Eru, a very solemn event. I've imagined that prior to the King's prayer, Númenóreans might have enjoyed a bit of feasting and fun; harvest celebrations are almost universally found across time, place and culture. (ref _Unfinished Tales_, 'A Description of Númenor' p 174 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[19] _"Ki dulg manô!"_  

    "You (are a) black spirit!" _Ki_ is presumably 'you'; Adûnaic does not use a verb for 'to be'; _dulg manô_ appears in the normal form here; _dulg_ is merely a guess at the normal singular for _dulgî_.  
  

[20] Pûtabas  

    'Blowwich' (Hobbit Westron) - I've borrowed from Hobbit Westron due to its Dunlandish influence (we have almost no examples of Dunlandish proper). As an early name for Pelargir, it's entirely made up - I've assumed that the native Dunlendings of the region had a fishing port long before the Númenóreans 'founded' Pelargir.  
  

[21] _Durbgu dashshu_  

    Lord of the Earth (Black Speech) This comes from David Salo's neo-Black Speech as it appears in _The Two Towers_. Etymological details may be found at Ryszard Derdzinski's site _Fellowship of the Word-smiths_, 'Language in the Lord of the Rings Movie'.  
  

[22] "In your blood runs the power of my kind"  

    It seems logical that Sauron would use the best material available for one destined to be his most powerful servant - a descendant of Elros, and therefore one with a few drops of Maian blood. Though numerous generations have passed at this point, we know that some 6,500 years after Lúthien and Beren lived, Aragorn still has powers attributed to Melian: _' "Here I must put forth all such power and skill as is given to me," he said. "Would that Elrond were here, for he is the eldest of all our race, and has the greater power." '_ (ref _LOTR_, 'ROTK' V. 8. p 845 pub. Houghton Mifflin, also _From pointy ears to Grima's tears: Tolkien Investigations_, 'Elvish Medicine: The Hands of the King' - URL can be found on my homepage)  
  

[23] _"O le echedithon vorguldir veleg, a ti i fuianner le, o le pedithar vi anwar a girithar o goe ir anglennal."_  

    "Of you I shall make a great black sorcerer, and those who have hated you will speak of you in awe, and will shudder in fear of you wherever you go." (S) (lit. "Of you I will make a black sorcerer mighty, and they who abhorred you, of you they will speak in awe and they will shudder from fear when you approach.") _echedithon_ is the future first person of the verb _echad-_; _morguldir_ is crafted from _morgul_, 'black arts, sorcery', lenited to _vorgul_ as a direct object, plus _dîr_, 'man'; _beleg_ is lenited to _veleg_ as an adjective following its object; _a ti i fuianner_ - _i_ in this case has the meaning 'who' (a well-attested Sindarin construction); _fuianner_ is the past third person plural of _fuia-_; _pedithar_ is the future third person plural of _ped-_; _girithar_ is the future third person plural of _gir-_; _anglennal_ is the second person singular of _anglenna-_.  
  
There is a bit of a pun in _morguldir_: in Sindarin, _gûl_ means 'sorcery', but in the Black Speech, it refers to _'any one of the major invisible servants of Sauron dominated entirely by his will'_ (ref _A Tolkien Compass_ p. 172). Incidentally, if Sauron's use of Sindarin troubles the gentle reader, keep in mind that he must have used Sindarin or Quenya in Eregion - regardless of his hatred of the elves and their languages, he was not so rigid that he would not use them at necessity.  
  

[24] _Lugbúrz_  

    Barad-dûr (Black Speech)  
  

[25] the essence of their life revealed an Elven fëa  

    (ref _Morgoth's Ring_, 'Myths Transformed' VIII, 'Orcs' p 411 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[26] _elvellyn_  

    elf-friends (S)  
  

[27] _Muindor_  

    brother (S)  
  

[28] _Grangulshu_  

    King of the Shadows (Black Speech) This is based partly on David Salo's neo-Black Speech as it appears in 'The Treason of Isengard' on _The Fellowship of the Ring_ soundtrack. _gûl_ is attested as 'invisible servants of Sauron' (see above), and is used to mean 'shadows' in Salo's translation of the Ring Rhyme (the portion Tolkien did not translate to the Black Speech). _shu_ seems to have the meaning 'of the' as Salo uses it. _gran_ is isolated from _golugranu_, Elvenkings, and is clearly related to the Common Eldarin stem _3_AR-. The _-u_ ending in _golugranu_ appears to be the word _u_, 'to' that appears in _LOTR_ in Grishnákh's curse. (ref 'TTT', IV, Ch 3 p 435 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[29] _Daghburz_  

    Mordor (Black Speech) This comes from David Salo's neo-Black Speech as it appears in 'Treason of Isengard' from _The Fellowship of the Ring_ soundtrack. Etymological details may be found at Ryszard Derdzinski's site _Fellowship of the Word-smiths_, 'Language in the Lord of the Rings Movie'.  
  

[30] those most intimately involved in his plans would prove more loyal to him if they served him in devotion and not fear  

    The Witch-king makes a rather interesting comment to Gandalf at the gates of Minas Tirith: _'This is my hour.'_ This comment cannot be simply explained as mindless ingestion of Sauron's will - it is clear that the Witch-king does have some will of his own (he simply cannot do anything _against_ the will of Sauron). He does not merely follow orders, but has some leeway in his manner of accomplishing Sauron's goals. This is a wraith who likes his work. (ref _LOTR_ 'ROTK' V. 4. p 811 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[31] Sauron had even a measure of fondness for his acolyte  

    We have a few orc comments regarding the Nazgûl as evidence for this: _'You ought to know that they're the apple of the Great Eye,'_ (ref _LOTR_, 'TTT' III, Ch 3 pp 441-2 pub. Houghton Mifflin); _'But He likes 'em; they're His favourites nowadays so it's no use grumbling.'_ (ref _LOTR_, 'TTT' IV, Ch 10 p 720 pub. Houghton Mifflin). Orcs and men could be treacherous; the Ringwraiths could be counted upon to act only in Sauron's interest.  
  

[32] _"Pity and Mercy: not to strike without need."_  

    This line is borrowed from Gandalf's words to Frodo in _LOTR_. (ref 'FOTR' Book I Ch 2 p 58 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  
  

[33] ancient elven citadel  

    Oropher once held Amon Lanc. (ref _Unfinished Tales_, 'Disaster of the Gladden Fields' p 293, note 14 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)  
  

[34] _uruk_  

    Warrior orc[s] (Black Speech) The word did not just refer to Saruman's creatures, but also to the elite Mordor orcs. (ref _LOTR_, 'ROTK' VI, Ch 2 p 910 pub. Houghton Mifflin)  

  
  


* * *

  
  


**Notes on Adûnaic Grammar**  
  


_Kinâkha! Kinâkha! Agannâlun, kinâkha!  
Zigûrun urûkhi kiyada.  
Kinâkha! Kinâkha! Mânôn 'ndâur, kinâkha!  
Idô dulg nûluvô, lôkha pûha 'nki  
anâkhi._  
  
Arise! Arise! Death-shadow, arise!  
The Wizard, he calls to you.  
Arise! Arise! Gloom-spirit, arise!  
From blackest night,  
come forth your twisted breath.  
  
(Literal Translation)  
Be at hand! Be at hand! Death-shadow, be at hand!  
The Wizard [he] calls to you.  
Be at hand! Be at hand! Spirit of gloom, be at hand!  
Now from black [evil] night, crooked breath of you comes.  
  
_**Kinâkha**_ - _ki_ may be guessed to mean 'you', from _bâ kitabdahê_, 'don't you touch me!' - the conjugation I have used for the imperative assumes that _hê_ means 'me' and thus the imperative for Class II verbs is identical to the aorist. It appears that _nakkha-_ (a Class I verb) has the same ending in the aorist tense as does _dubda-_. Obviously, this is theoretical and quite open to argument, but unfortunately, we lack complete verb conjugations in Adûnaic.  
_**Agannâlun**_ - _Agannâlu_ takes the masculine subjective form here as the (presumably masculine) subject of the verb - _ki_ is unnecessary in the verb that follows _Agannâlun_, but I've retained it for poetic reasons  
  
_**Zigûrun**_ - attested as the Adûnaic name for Sauron, lit. 'the wizard'; _Zigûr_ takes the masculine subjective form  
_**urûkhi**_ - _u_ is attested as the pronominal prefix for 'he', _-hi_ is attested as the continuative present tense ending for Class I verbs  
_**kiyada**_ - _ki_ is again used as 'you'; _-yada_ is formed from _ada_, 'to' and the y-glide used between nouns ending in _-i_ and prepositions beginning with vowels. Prepositions in Adûnaic are normally affixed to their object.  
  
_**Mânôn**_ - _Manô_ takes the masculine subjective form as subject of the verb _nâkha_  
_**'ndâur**_ - _an_, 'of' is usually prefixed to its object as _'n-_  
  
_**Idô**_ - _îdô_ is attested as the adverb 'now'  
_**dulg**_ - _dulg_ is presumably the normal singular of _dulgî_, 'black'. In Adûnaic, the adjective precedes the noun.  
_**nûluvô**_ - _nûlu_ is attested as 'night' [with an evil sense]. _ô_ means 'from'; the v-glide is used between nouns ending in _-u_ and prepositions beginning with vowels  
_**Lôkha**_ - _lôkha_ is presumably the subjective singular of _lôkhî_  
_**pûha**_ - attested as the noun 'breath'; the subjective form used here is also attested and used for the subject of the noun, 'comes'  
_**'nki**_ - _an_ becomes _'n-_, 'of', _ki_ is presumably 'you' [see above] - this genitive construction is the nearest we can form to 'your'  
  
_**anâkhi**_ - _a_ appears to be the neuter pronominal prefix in _batân_ _ayadda_, 'road went'; _nâkhi_ is the attested present continuative conjugation of _nakkha-_  
  
**Sources for Adûnaic Grammar:** Helge Fauskanger's _Ardalambion_, 'Adûnaic - the vernacular of Númenor'; Lalaith's _Middle-earth Science Pages_, 'Lalaith's Guide to Adûnaic Grammar'; David Salo's translation of 'The Revelation of the Ringwraiths', from the _Fellowship of the Ring_ soundtrack, as analyzed in Ryszard Derdzinski's _Fellowship of the Word-smiths_, 'Language in the Lord of the Rings Movie'; and of course the original source, J.R.R. Tolkien's _Sauron Defeated_, 'The Notion Club Papers' and 'The Drowning of Anadûnê'. Where I differ from these sources, it is either a matter of multiple interpretations (Tolkien revised Adûnaic many times, so we have a confused primary text), or a matter of my erroneous understanding. All of the online citations may be found via the address listed as my homepage on my profile at ff net.   
  



End file.
